Vibe of Souls
by Kupo Stiltzkin
Summary: A collection of Bleach shorts and one-shots. -Story 5: Adjusting to new life and old friends after the Winter War proves to be difficult for some captains, especially when you have a century to catch up.-
1. A friendly banter

**Summary**: A high aristocrat and an ex-Rukongai dweller have nothing in common, and somehow they found some similarities…

-

It was Zaraki who passed through the aristocrat at the Seireitei corridor, all sweaty, blood stained and in the rags he called Captain's outfit, while the pink ball of doom of a vice captain bounced cheerfully at his back.

Byakuya's only reaction as both of the 11th division members passed him by was a short nasal voice that clearly signifies disgust.

And despite Yachiru's very loud explanation of her latest 'Nip and rip the Hollows project', Kenpachi just have the exact timing to hear it.

"Did ya just say something?"

Byakuya stopped and turned around to look at his fellow captain, who had his sole attention focused on him. Beady eyes, blood soaked, no sense of dignity and growling voice—Zaraki Kenpachi was the very sole entity of a thug of thugs. How could this creature even walk and blemish the soils of Seireitei? "I did not. Have you been using dirt to clean your ears again?"

"Like how you use wax to rub your eyes? You definitely did say something."

"I did not."

"You did."

"I did not."

"You DID."

The sixth division captain slowly blinked and stopped himself from sighing loudly. "I made a sound."

"You made a sound."

"Yes."

"You tryin' to mess with me, _young master_?"

"Hey, hey, hey, Ken-chan, are you playing a game with Bya-kun? Can I play too? Please please? Pretty pretty please?"

"NO, we're not playing, and stay out of this. Go back to the division by yourself, Yachiru." Kenpachi turned his attention back to Byakuya. Hair curlers, fair complexion, stoic face, a goddamn sissy scarf that can buy a house and unreadable expression, Kuchiki Byakuya was the avatar of the haughty blue blood that has been dominant in the shinigami ranks for centuries. How much he wished to crack that porcelain face with his fist. "If it is so, then you come and say it to my face. Don't go around making girly noises behind my back."

"I have no desire to answer that," Byakuya said.

"Why, not enough _balls_ to do it?" Kenpachi said, advancing further.

"No, because I did not think you low lives would have enough working brain cells to understand the meaning behind it."

Zaraki narrowed his eyes and cracked his knuckles. "And apparently you don't have enough brain to say it outright, either. How about I give you a special medical treatment free of charge? One fist to your nose oughtta do it."

"Lay one filthy finger on me, Zaraki, and I shall--"

Byakuya moved in time to evade Kenpachi's fist aiming for his face.

"You'll what? _Flip_ your hair in disgust? Ooooh, I'm scared!"

"I shall teach you the word fear, Zaraki."

"What're you gonna do? Smack my ass with that sissy scarf?! I swear I'll make you whimper like a girl!"

"Yes, I bet you will love that! And I shall make you beg for mercy beneath me!" Byakuya immediately reached for his scarf in fury. "Well, here it comes!"

Pause.

From her position somewhere around the two grown men's knees, Yachiru saw their expression slowly grinding down to stone-like.

Kenpachi was the first to leave quietly, and with his silent departing, Byakuya decided to cooperate as well.

They could only look at each other in the eye without looking away a good forty years later.


	2. Inerasable Memory

Summary: Inoue Orihime, on leaving and getting left behind. Set pre-series.

-

_Dear mother and father, _

_I apologize for leaving so suddenly, but seeing as I've finally reached the age for independence, I suspected it was sooner or later that you kicked me out or for me to simply move out. For Orihime and I, the latter choice was obviously better. _

_Both of you had shown no affection at all for years that we spent under your roof, and there doesn't seem to be any intentions in the future either._

_That day, I came home from my high school graduation to find Orihime crying alone in her bed, with wet sheets. Dad was passed out on the couch with his favorite Asahi in his hand and empty cans around his feet. Mom, you weren't there, you were probably visiting that host club at __Sumaru Boulevard__, but I know that when you got home, you'll beat her up endlessly for a wet bed sheet. It was inhumane. Orihime's body still had that bruises from the last time you hit her for accidentally dropping the vase. She even couldn't talk to this day—she was too afraid of disturbing you, she has to force herself to smile even when she's supposed to be able to cry._

_Forgive me for deciding it was enough._

_Your son, Sora_

-

There was an old photo of her grinning in front of the local kindergarten, dressed in the pink uniform, wearing a matching hat. On the back of the photo, Sora had written _Orihime, age 4_.

It was found enclosed with the unsent letter in the corner of Sora's drawer, stuffed beneath unused papers. Their parents had not sent anything back, and Orihime never found out why up till this day. Normally, people would have memories of faces, voices, or hours spent in a gentle person's arms.

What is it about childhood that you can't seem to remember much about it? Sure, she had this faint recollection of a stinging feeling in her limbs, the sound of a fight dying down the hallway, and learning how to be quiet, because more tears and screaming meant more pain coming her way.

Sora took her for an afternoon stroll in the riverbank once, and she did remember laughing and running along with the tiny, red, big eyed insects, even though the wind had messed up her pig tails. Her brother's face was shadowed with the upcoming sunset by the time they went home, and she remembered him muttering something like 'it's time'.

She didn't really remember the long journey, but she did remember offering her brother the biscuits she had saved up in her dress's pocket, and he had smiled and patted her head. He told her they're going somewhere nice, and Orihime should keep the snacks for herself.

If she recalled correctly, it was the day they left their parent's home.

*

On their early days away from their parents, Sora left for work in the morning and she would meet him at dusk. Orihime was always the first to arrive and the last to leave at the child day care—Sora had taken double shifts, sometimes double jobs at her toddler years only to kept her well-fed. _It was choice I've taken and the risks that I'm willing to take_, he later told her when she's old enough to understand.

On her first day, Orihime parted with her brother for the first time.

One of the nice ladies at the child care, Kouzuki-san had kneeled beside her and held her shoulders gently, and coaxed so that she'd let go of Sora's sleeves, or else he'd be late for work.

"Orihime," Sora kneeled in front of her until their line of vision was the same, "Onii-chan has to leave for work now. What are you supposed to say?"

Orihime fought to keep the tears dropping and her lower lip from trembling, but kept her eyes from her brother's face. Her first thought was that she can't be loud—what they'd do to her if she cried?

"Now, Orihime-chan," Kouzuki-san said again, "say 'ittterashai' to your brother."

Slowly, she looked up to see Sora's concerned face, and her mouth was suddenly dry.

"Yes, Orihime?"

It seemed to die down her throat, but she managed. "—irachai, nii-jyan."

He had hugged her so tightly then, and she didn't even know why, but she remembered, she didn't learn how to talk in front of strangers until that day.

*

Sora was the one who noticed her first in the sailor uniform amidst the sea of people at the train station, the discerning hair color that stood out like fire. The band-aid's mark was still on her cheek, and her hair was short—shorter than he had wished.

_A change of heart_, she had told him, but his brotherly instincts believed it was something else. She used to tell him everything, so why stop now?

"Onii-chan!" she rushed to him the moment she noticed him out of the rush hour crowd, with a wide, ready smile on her face. Automatically, she hook one arm over his, entwined their fingers so they were basically side by side, and Orihime knew they'd stay that way until they reach home. It made her remember Sakata-san's weird comment of how 'Orihime was more like a spouse than a sister'. _Ah, who cares? It's not like brother complex is a crime, anyway!_

"I'm home, Orihime," he said, and patted her hair. "What shall we have for dinner?"

"Sukonbu and strawberry jam on whole wheat toast~!" she answered automatically, imagining just how far Sora might stretch it this time.

A wry smile on Sora's face didn't go unnoticed, and she continued. "Just kidding! Teehee~~"

"One of these days," he sighed, extending one hand to ruffle her hair affectionately. "I'm pretty sure you might go and cook those kinds of food whenever I'm not around."

Autumn had graced Karakura with golden and red leaves on top of the trees, and Orihime actually had to remind herself to smile more. The bullies at the school were satisfied with the condition of her hair now, they still sneered and said things, but at least they didn't corner her with a cutlery in the girl's room anymore.

They usually stop by at the local supermarket on the way home, but somehow both of them took a different path this time, and passed by a small shop.

It was small and simple, but for Sora it was enough. "Let's stop by here, Orihime."

The store was entirely made of wood and stored seasonal items, and quite a collection of sweets—apparently, even Sora's favorite sugarless gum. But there was no one around, and even the counter's unmanned. A revolving mini-stand was there, which housed several small utilities. Cell-phone straps, key-chain, hair bands and other hair decorations.

Her eyes stopped for a full ten seconds at a pair of baby blue snow crown shaped hairpins. The designs were simple, yet adorable and the price was affordable with her pocket money.

Instinctively, she fingered her freshly cut strands, and sighed.

"Welcome~~!!"

She almost jumped at the voice. It was a deep, playful tone that came from inside the wooden building. A man with unruly blond hair stood before the house's entrance, scratching his head. "Any particular thing you're looking for, miss?"

Orihime quickly flapped her hands, and backed away from the man with a polite grin. "No, nothing! We're just here for grocery shopping."

The man's wooden clogs made a loud noise as he walked forward and removed the hairpins from the stand. "Ah! Do you like these? I'll give you a big discount!"

She didn't expect Sora to step out from the back, holding their groceries. "I'll take them, along with these."

She was just opening her mouth to protest when the shop owner walked forward, pushing the hairpins into her hand until her fingers parted for it. Orihime felt her insides growing cold with the faint sticky feeling of band-aid on her cheek.

"Excellent choice, sir!" The man said, tipping his green and white striped hat forward, shadowing his face. "I promise you won't regret it."

Orihime spent the entire journey home sulking, refusing to tell her brother what's wrong, and didn't offer to carry the shopping bags for him. By the time they reached home, they argued endlessly over the preparations for dinner. At bed time, she pushed her futon closer to the wall intentionally and didn't bother saying good night. She expected him to forget about the hairpins tomorrow so she doesn't need to wear it to school.

The hurried footsteps and screeching tires that followed the next morning after Sora left for work wasn't expected at all.

*

"Here, Orihime-chan."

She looked up to see the man handing her a mug. Chocolate, she'd later learn, because she only caught the scent and didn't touch the liquid, only let the mug's heat warm her fingers.

The doctor sat next to her, and took a sip from his mug that said 'the best daddy in the world'. "When is your aunt coming?"

The question didn't go through at first, but then she recalled calling her aunt, telling her that's been an accident this morning, and Sora is--was—

There's blood on her hands still. She was dressed in an oversized sweater and pants, because the doctor gave her some boys' clothes to change, but she didn't remember cleaning up afterwards.

Her tongue felt like stone in the bottom of the river, but Orihime gulped unintentionally, forcing herself to speak. "…She'll be leaving in a late night flight, so she'll arrive here at around midnight."

Trails of sunset pierced through the curtains, generating long shades of the doctor's equipment on the floor. The clinic was closed for the day. Her brother's body was stiff on the table.

"I see…and your parents?"

She squinted at her chocolate and the heady fumes suddenly troubled her to remember their faces. Her mouth twisted at the memory of Sora's bruised face. "We--I haven't stayed in touch with them for a very long time."

A long pause, as the doctor took another sip and scratched his scruffy chin.

"What have I done, doctor?"

The doctor placed his cup down, and patted her head gently. "Now, now…I know it's sudden and you're shocked, but what happened isn't your fault, Orihime-chan."

Her hands slowly shook the cup with every tremble, but Orihime didn't lower it still, letting the hot liquid splash wildly around her hand. "We—I had a fight with him last night--over the stupidest things. Before he left, we didn't talk. I-I never told him I'm sorry. I never apologized, and now the last thing he remembered about me was—me, acting childish about something so stupid--"

By the time she sniffled, the cup was gone from her hand, and Orihime found herself in the doctor's arms, gripping his coat, bawling like a baby for the first time in her life.

*

The midnight air was cool and balmy by the time she left the clinic with her aunt and her brother's body in an ambulance. She bowed deeply to the doctor before leaving, promising the return of his son's clothes soon in the future. Instead, the man took out a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the corners of her eyes with it.

"Take care, Orihime-chan," he whispered, bending down to pat her cheek. "I know it's too early to say this to you, but I want you to know that there are people out there that still care for you. Your brother will rest easier on the other side."

She nodded weakly, and nervously gripped her hands, blinking back the tears. "Because onii-chan's watching me from somewhere, right Dr. Kurosaki?"

His eyes flicked from somewhere over her shoulder, at the vehicle that carried her dead brother, and focused on her. He spent the next minute rummaging his pockets, and finally managed to pull out a pair of baby-blue; snow crown shaped hairpins and gently placed it on her open palm. Orihime could feel the steel's warmth on her skin; Dr. Kurosaki has been holding to it all night long for her.

When she didn't give any form of answer, Dr. Kurosaki sighed and resorted to close his hand over her blood stained one.

"Perhaps one day you'll find the answer to that, because leaving and getting left behind—" His eyes were cast down, which made her think that being alive was agonizing most of the time. "is equally painful, Orihime-chan."


	3. Through rose colored glasses

Summary: Hitsugaya and Hinamori, and choosing between truth and illusions.

-

She didn't know why he was so stubborn.

All she could understand was that he was rejecting the truth: Aizen has been manipulated and he was a different person when she's around her. All the gentle smiles and kind tutoring for her, how can it be all lies?

There could be no one like him.

They often talked with each other, even though what started as a usual conversation generally escalated in to a fight, and eventually both would end up saying things that they regret. In the end, the guards needed to interfere, and it ended abruptly, Hinamori nearly in tears, and Hitsugaya falling to the obstinate silence.

She watched him fidgeting through the narrow opening of the white wall of the Tower of Penitence today, green eyes focusing sharply on her.

"How are you today?"

"Are you still on it?"

"Hitsugaya-kun," she reached over, trying to caress the wound on his cheek.

He grumbled, shook his head and looked away after pushing her hand away. "I can't believe this."

"If only you'd listen," Hinamori sighed, leaning her forehead to the tower's wall. "Are you doing this just to hurt me?"

"I'm only stating the facts," he paused, gazing at the sky, "even after everything he has done, do you still believe him more?"

She knew Hitsugaya's last line went differently inside their minds, but her answer would hurt him even more. "Shiro-chan--"

"Than me?"

"Please--"

"Leave him be, Hinamori-kun."

They turned their sole attention to Aizen as he emerged and parted his way through the Arrancar guards. "Hitsugaya-kun is deluded. He still believed what he thinks is right."

Hinamori ducked her face sheepishly, and quickly bowed at him. "Aizen-taichou, forgive --"

"No need to apologize, Hinamori-kun, I know how important he is to you," the former 5th division captain approached her and pat her head. "The other captains have been stubborn and opposed my way of doing things around here. I hope he doesn't meet the same fate as them."

"I'm gonna kill you," Hitsugaya said suddenly through gritted teeth, his fingers leaving half-moon marks on the tower's white wall, "I'll tear your head off, pull your intestines out and then I'll make you wish you're already dead twice, you son of a--"

"Goodness, Hinamori-kun. It seems that he's about to snap again," Aizen said, almost sounding amused. "Shall we go, before his cruel words defile your ear?"

Hinamori felt almost hesitant, but then Hitsugaya has started madly pounding on the walls that separated him from the rest of Soul Society, screaming obscenities at Aizen until the arrancar guards finally entered the tower with their swords drawn. His cries made her flinch, and finally she nodded silently to Aizen, quietly wiping her tears in the corner of her sleeve. As Aizen led her back to their quarters, she cast a look at the reformed Soul Society, and watched as the Arrancars walked down the streets of Seireitei. Her friends and comrades, the shinigami, all of them were gone, but as Aizen tightened his warm hold on her shoulder, she realized it was all worth it.

Why can't Hitsugaya understand that?


	4. Polar Effects

Title: Polar Effects  
Characters/Pairings: Ryuuken, Ishida, Souken, Isshin, Ichigo  
Word count: 2360  
Rating: T  
Spoilers: Up to chapter 187  
Summary: Ishida family, on dealing with death in different ways.

-

At some parts of the world, it's still considered customary for grandparents to dote their grandchildren. My father simply practiced the custom, and in his defense, it was to make sure that my son felt loved.

As if I'd never love him enough.

_"I wish you'd stop giving him ideas, dad."_

_He sighed, long and heavy, and I prepared myself for another long lecture on birth rights, or two centuries of deep hatred. None came. "I'm only telling him what he wanted to know. He is, after all, your son."_

_"Because of that, I get to decide what he needs to know."_

_"You should understand, Ryuuken." _

_Spinning on my heel, I got to the door, and heard what he managed to spoke out before I closed the door and out of his flat. "Uryuu—he is my hope, just as you were."_

_Hope is a very dangerous thing to have. Everything falls apart when it's taken away. And I had slammed the door on my way out, walking out of his life._

I knew the story even before I smelled the disinfectant, arid and strong, coming from the building and my own suit.

Five Huge Hollows, surrounding my father's brittle body.

Two Shinigami, performing a Soul Burial instead of exorcism.

One boy, the feeling of powerlessness consuming him.

The bloodied face on top of the steel table told another tale altogether.

Three decades worth of memories, pressing in like a mass. "Yes, it's him." I stopped myself from saying 'my father' in the end of my sentence, replacing it with more identifiable words. "Ishida Souken."

Among my father's earthly possession was a white Quincy cloak, wide and served no use save for a fashion statement. Only the chosen few of the shinigami recognized the white coat nowadays, and most of them didn't even bother themselves with the living. It was the cross that I recognized immediately.

In a fleeting moment, I felt the weight crushing my palm, centuries' worth of ugly struggle and uneven skirmishes. _'All yours, Ryuuken_,' I could hear my father murmur again and again, the man that was frail long before his years consumed him. When all papers have been signed and sealed for the next step, I finally noticed the small body crouched with his back against the morgue's murky wall. With his head lying between his knees, he looked smaller than he usually did.

The police gestured the boy when he noticed my attention was elsewhere. "Yes, that's him," I nodded before he shared any useful info this time. "Uryuu. My good-for-nothing son."

They had found my wrecked family, my dead father and broken son, the only thing identifiable was Souken's scars and blood oddly drained out of him. The old man in irregular pale wide cloak and the boy that clung to him, too traumatized to talk.

"I told I to stay away from him, didn't I?" Much to my annoyance, Uryuu has made a habit of ducking his face whenever my scolding became too harsh. His breath was short and uneven, too exhausted to snap a reply and too sleepy to budge. Between my father's untimely demise and the retrieval of his dead body, my son has fallen into a deep slumber against a wall.

Removing my own suit, I wrapped my son with it, and gently scooped him up in my arms. He was heavier than the last time I remembered. I visited the morgue in hope of finding two family members. There was none when I left. Once I reached home, I tucked him in and killed the light on my way out of his room. For the very first time I found myself praying, hoping that my son's sleep would be dreamless tonight. Free from the memory of his grandfather's death. Deprived of any experience from this morning, just for this one night.

Because it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

-

"Are you sure you're letting me put the flower in his coffin?"

The funeral was quiet – two family members, one funeral director and a priest. Countless stalks of white chrysanthemums in the coffin. My son was huddled in the corner of crematorium building, shaking in his new crisp black suit I've chosen in haste at the local department store. Oversized, the sleeves revealed only the boy's fingertips – his tiny fists clutched tightly at the hems. He was fighting back tears. I wouldn't let him get away with it. So I stood in front of him, ignoring the fact that he had woke up crying last night. My father would have dried his grandson's tears and whispered that he didn't need to go through with it—time would surely guide him.

But time never waits.

"Look around you, Uryuu," I said, but he stubbornly kept his gaze on the ground, on his shoe, anywhere but my face and my father's coffin. "Grandfather's lived a full life. None of his friends made it to his funeral. So it's either up to you or me to put the flower in there for him."

In truth, I knew he was long, long before his time—_not until I saw him grow up_, my father often muttered, _until he's old enough to fully comprehend_. _I will not die._

The only thing I regretted was his lack at keeping his own words. The boy, however, looked up to me finally, angry tears brimming in his eyes. His voice cracked from choking back. "...Why?"

"Because it's a ritual, and--"

"Why are you still like that, dad?"

I found myself staring back at the boy in the oversized black suit, shaking in his new black shoes. He was a small version of me, save the curtains of black hair framing his little sad face. They did nothing to hide his tears from me now.

"How can you make a face like that when grandfather is--" he shook his head furiously, the unspoken word biting at both of us. "Aren't you _sad_ at all?"

Ignorance was what I perform day in and day out, and finding the results was never comforting. Once, my father had said my son was the center of his universe. After his death, it was my son's turn to make my father into his.

"Don't—" I paused, pulling a deep breath. "Don't speak what you don't understand. Is this your way of backing out? Soon, those people will put grandfather's body in fire and all that will remain is his ashes. Soon you won't even remember his face anymore, and it's all because you're too scared to face your own failure."

_My own failure_, a voice chided inside of me, _my own failure._

"I don't remember ever raising such a coward, Uryuu."

The white chrysanthemum's stalk was bent in his clutch—but it was the least of my concern. He stared at me then, the boy with my face and the look of a stranger. Slowly, his tiny feet carried him to the side of the coffin where my father's body lay. There was not even the slightest tremble of his fingers as he placed the pale flower gently beside my father. With the hardest features I've ever seen in a child, he strode past, the ghost of tears shining on his cheeks. "I _hate_ you."

In front of me, the last generation of Quincy laid to rest—having the time of his afterlife in Soul Society, perhaps—and at my back, my son's footsteps echoed. The past, departed. The future—or hope as my father would call it—slipping away. I did the only thing I could. Rising my hand slightly, signaled the man from the funeral service that had watched my surly banter with my son from the corner of his eyes, who was pretending he had not witnessed a thing.

"Please close the coffin."

-

None of my father's friends made it here. All had been slain and sent to the Other Side in a jiffy, never making it out enough as a human, never fully serving as a Quincy in the late 20th Century. His two family members stood side by side, an arm's length apart. Instead, it was my colleagues who showed up in dark suits and simple black dresses, derived from their daily white coats. There were no tears, just a wake that would end prematurely. The priest has referred it as 'calm'.

This must be what Soul Society is like, I thought, all those people in black uniforms that tried not to look at each other in the eyes. After twenty of more acquaintances, I heard a crack of a familiar voice from my side. "For the love of anything that's holy, is it true that you've been promoted to hospital director?"

Black robe and black hakama, that's what I thought he'd appear in, standing in the crowd of guileless visitors in my father's wake, but as I slightly averted my gaze to him, there's only the regular, dull, dark outfit of the latest trend of the century. Same old black pants and black suit, same old shameless face, topped with that spiky black hair.

"News traveled fast," I greeted him, body automatically bent in his sight. "Kurosaki."

"Ishida," he returned my gesture, and scanned the rest of the grim people in grim suits. "How are you?"

_My father just died. My son thinks that I am a cold, unfeeling monster._ "I've been better."

Reading my mind, he let out a small smile, the smile of a man too experienced with death and never getting used to it. "You'll live through it."

You'll live through it, and then you'll die.

-

Kurosaki's place was a small house at Southern Karakura, a two-floored building that was meant for a small family unit. Man, wife, and children. One part was missing, and I saw his family, the children rearing up at the absence of their mother, and the father pathetically trying to fill in both roles that he could never handle. Not in a clumsy manner. Some people were just irreplaceable in a very special way.

Her portrait still hung at the dining room, a lovely woman that was a still a knockout in her early thirties. A girl that was probably way, way out of Kurosaki's league when they first met. "Still up with the old records, I see."

_'I could see, everybody's baby, but I couldn't see mine'_

His kitchen was surprisingly clean from the lack of a woman's touch. "Good ol' John, can never get enough of him."

There's a sound of his front door clicking open, and an unruly mop of orange hair sailed across before flying to the stairs.

Kurosaki's spiky head emerged from the fridge. "Ichigo? Is that you?"

A boy appeared at the doorway, bearing an empty look I recognized in an instant, the face Uryuu had ever since I found him crouching against the wall of the morgue. Kurosaki smiled fondly at his son, not commenting on the grass filled shorts and the socks smeared with fresh mud. The worn-out look didn't say that he's been out playing.

"I'm back, papa." His son said, before casting me an uninterested look, the stranger that was sitting in his mother's precious kitchen, listening to his father's collection of old western tunes.

The older Kurosaki mussed his son's hair. "Welcome back." He gestured over his shoulder. "This is Dr. Ishida."

He bowed politely, fatigue oozing from every corner of his young face. "Good afternoon, Mr. Ishida."

"He just became ten last July," Kurosaki droned above John Lee Hooker's voice, "like your son. Ame...tatsu, was it?"

_'Shakin' hand, I sat there,'_

"Uryuu."

Kurosaki's boy was nothing like my son. For once, Uryuu would never cover himself in mud and childish games—up to my father's death, his favorite pastime was hanging out at his grandfather's until sundown, listening to the grim stories of Destroyer-Archers that once filled my childhood. The boys never even met, and yet they shared this unmistakable similitude that even I couldn't help but notice. Families, shattering from one death, and never quite recovering from it. All too fitting, when the parents have given up a profession for the deceased over the living.

_'So all alone, coverin' the waterfront'_

"Go clean yourself up, Ichigo," he shooed his junior upstairs. "Daddy wants to talk to you later."

Without looking back, the boy hopped up the flight of stairs.

"Did he?"

I strained my eye at Kurosaki over the rim of Asahi can, wondering where the conversation was going. "Did he what?" Truth be told, I knew what he was talking about. The uncharacteristic frown of a grade-schooler, and the spiritual pressure too high for a normal human child—the former could be noticed with a mere glance.

"...stopped being selfish. Your son. Did he stop being a kid?"

Uryuu had done all that and more. He tried stopping being my son altogether. "Yes."

_'__All the ships, left the harbor,'_

That's reality. Children would grow up, leaving their past behind, they could stop being a kid. But both of us knew, understood all too well, we could never stop being a parent.

_'and headed for their next destination'_

Even if the children wanted nothing from the parent anymore.

-

In six years, Uryuu developed the shinigami loathe. In less than two months, he gave up his power and gained more than one shinigami buddies. That's what I called them, shinigami buddies, compact souls in black, their arrogance had ruined far too many not-so-innocent souls. Father's voice resounded the loudest tonight, _my hope, my only hope._

One spiritual thread blared imminent red.

At the crossroad, the two of us met. I noticed his sword first, dangling from his sash, the gleaming sheath outstanding around the black getup, a colorful tassel swinging cheerfully from the soul cutter sword's hilt. He noticed my surly face, fingers posing on the bow, tugging the bow string. It only took less than a second for both of us to reach our weapons, our tools for wounding souls, and declared vocal detestation for each other. It only took that much to start another war.

"Shinigami," I addressed him, walking past.

"Quincy," Kurosaki Isshin smirked, pride lacing his every syllable.

Without as much of a glance, both of us walked towards our sons.


	5. Long Enough

Summary: [Future AU] Adjusting to new life and old friends after the Winter War proves to be difficult for some captains, especially when you have a century to catch up.

*

Newly appointed Captain Hirako Shinji of the 5th division looked around in his old room, searching for his old trusty gramophone. Visible dust flew when he blew the top of the boxes, the century old documents and untouched files. Turning his predecessor's private quarters into the storage room was something he should have predicted being on top of Sosuke's to do list.

Mashiro had been against of the idea of bringing his Ipod to Soul Society. ('Where on earth are you gonna charge the battery, Shinji? Plug it into your vice captain's nostrils?') Later on, he decided he would pester Mayuri to invent something that could generate electricity at his disposal. Heck, probably badger the blue haired freak long enough until he's ready to fling Shinji a thunder based kidou powerful enough to last the Ipod a month.

His shihakusho's low collar were choking him, and the captain haori felt almost alien on his shoulders—he has commissioned new ones to be made—the sleeves were covering his fingers when he straightened up, the division's emblem with the five kanji was unsettling his nerves as his hair was too short to cover it from judging eyes. Briefly, Shinji entertained the idea of being the first man in history to wear a Lupin-esque designer suit to the captains' meeting. Especially when Rose could pull of laces and pirate shirt, and Yamamoto's eyebrow didn't even budge.

When the novelty wore off, he just _re_settled into Sosuke's private chamber – 2nd division's investigation squad has confiscated enough of the traitor's items that the only ones that remained were mere knick-knacks and garbage. He still clearly remembered Sosuke's penchant for calligraphy and his habit of practicing on every scrap paper.

Shinji wasn't surprised the scroll hanging on his old bedroom's wall read as 'Heaven'- he reminded himself to burn that thing on the lawn tomorrow for some roasted sweet potatoes.

*

"How's your new vice captain?"

"She's really cute," Shinji didn't actually sigh, just answered in a very dramatically disappointed tone. "but she's refusing my advances."

"Careful with how you treat her," there was a chuckle from the other line, "you never know what some people are capable of."

"Ya also told me that about Sosuke," he took a deep breath and released it, "and boy, how I was so _wrong_. Anyway Shunsui, how come we aren't meeting for a drink instead?"

"Because my dear sweet Nanao-chan is standing behind me with a castration threat should I even think of ditching work—I'm just _kidding_, Nanao-chan, please put down your zanpakutou—"

There was this image of younger Risa in his mind whenever he thought of Kyouraku's vice captain: a bespectacled, long haired young woman with her trusty tome in hand, smacking Shunsui's face without even blinking. Often, Shinji wondered why he didn't grow out his hair again so he could twirl them around his fingers when talking over the phone. Oh right. Hiyori and Risa had almost burned his long, perfect blonde mane when they had argued whether he looked better in French-braids or pigtails. But anyway. "Is she Risa's replacement?"

"Just the position," Kyouraku answered, nearly too hasty, and Shinji wondered how clichéd it sounded, almost like a textbook response, almost unlike Kyouraku at all.

He tapped the contraption's spine before muttering to the cellphone, "I'll come over, when I have time."

*

"Shunsui has grown more attached," Shinji started, inhaling the warm fumes of freshly brewed tea from Ukitake's teacup. A bit chipped at the bottom from tear and wear over the decades, but it was well taken care of. Shinji suspected it was the same cup used by the late Shiba Kaien whenever he's invited over for a game of go and a job offer.

"It's part of the process of attaining more wisdom through the years," Ukitake confided, and Shinji didn't miss the pause. "he's been through a lot."

"That Nanao-chan…" Shinji placed his cup down after rotating it in his finger. "in a way, she's a lot like Risa."

Ukitake looked sideways before replying. "Nanao used to be tutored by Risa."

He threw the longhaired captain a look, trying to find the answers in Ukitake's frazzled and tired façade, "By the way, I heard about Shiba. Sorry to hear what happened."

The clock inside the office ticked, snapping and loud.

"It's been decades, Shinji," Ukitake leisurely raised a hand to knead his temple, scrutinizing the go ban. "Recently Kuchiki told me what happened to her in Hueco Mundo with the Noveno Espada. Sometimes I wished--"

_He didn't choose to fight for his honor. _

"Not all of us are chasing a shadow down the road," Shinji finished for him, placing a white bead down on the board.

Ukitake paused long enough to inspect his opponent's handiwork, and managed not to groan. "You win."

Shinji didn't stay long enough for Ukitake to divulge more on styles of bonsai shaping and brewing the perfect tea and how many _moku_ Shinji won on _go_; he was growing less relaxed and more agitated, feeling anything but alive.

He could have told Ukitake that opposite from Shunsui, Jyuushiro's actually grown less attached, but didn't.

*

Momo-chan didn't really ask him any questions, just polite nods and small talks about the weather sometimes when they're at the office. She has potentials—Shinji made a mental note of it, unlike when he discovered about Sosuke and Kaname and Gin at the academy—so very bright, so eager to serve, and not so full of hidden agendas. Hinamori was sweet, subservient, hard working and a talented kidou master. She didn't look like anyone who would bake glasses shaped cookies for an event at SWA for them to be crushed by someone proclaiming about standing in the heavens. If not for the angry red scar that Shinji knew still existed on her stomach, he would have suspected her as another one of Sosuke's apparition.

Perhaps he shouldn't envy Kensei's current situation that much, especially when working on a deadline for Seireitei monthly with Tousen's former vice captain (who was a real live Muguruma Kensei _fanboy_ that had his admiration and devotion inked permanently on his face). The last thing Shinji needed was awe, and Momo knew this better than anyone.

But Momo serves him tea (_not_-poisoned, he already sent multiple samples to Unohana) over long work hours and stacks of forms and endless paper work, not really believing or confiding or actually pulling away, and Shinji knew something has to be done.

After resisting the idea of turning Sosuke's old man habits into joking material, Shinji surrendered. Ever so subtly, one day he changed their subject about whether or not it's going to rain into Sosuke's favorite music. Hinamori's lips quirked in distaste before she tactfully digressed, her voice curt and steady, mentioning about more paperwork needed to be done and went back to finish the balance sheet quietly.

The silence that hung after wasn't exactly awkward, just deafening enough for Shinji to slam headfirst to his desk.

Though she admitted that she preferred Shinji's collection of Sade's greatest hits before leaving the office that night.

*

The gramophone was found lodged beneath piles of old futon the next month. The needle left trails of white scratches on his prized vinyl recordings when he turned it on, caked with dust, brown from rust. The produced sound resembled of nails scraping on chalkboard. _As obsolete as me, _Shinji was thinking—wondering wildly when he felt a flare of familiar reiatsu behind him.

"Wanna go for a drink?"

Pink robe fluttering in the night wind, Shunsui stood at the door of Aizen's former bedroom, Jyuushiro in tow. Squinting his eyes to make sure they weren't apparitions of some sort, Shinji found himself bereft of any reason to decline the offer, especially when Ukitake's feeling well enough to go out.

After telling Momo to go home for the night, they visited the _Kamome_ bar at South Rukongai's 2nd district.

"Shochu for the pink guy, and amazuke for the white hair," Shinji told the bartender, and spun around to inspect his fellow captains. "Did I get that right?"

"It's just like you to still remember all that," Kyouraku tipped his hat down.

Unless Ukitake's holding down a cough, Shinji could see him actually grinning, so he bared his teeth in retort. "Not much to do after hollowfication process in the real world--aside from _reading_ Risa's collection and annoying the hell out of Kensei."

When their orders arrived, Shunsui took one of the sake jugs and tipped the contents to Shinji's cup. The latter took it without questioning, and the liquid vanished into his throat in eight seconds flat.

"My old gramophone's busted," Shinji mumbled to his cup, long after the alcohol has heated his cheeks and ears, and Shunsui-who hasn't been wasted- perked up in interest. All the humor has drained from Shinji's voice, making him sound more like a weary old man than Gotei 13's revered high ranked office. "I'm gonna have to throw it out…but what about my recordings?"

"Send it to Kurotsuchi for repair," Ukitake suggested. "But Shinji, it's a miracle that the thing's still intact and, well, _working_ after a hundred years."

"Why don't you give it a well deserved rest for doing a job well done? After all, you have an eep-ot now."

"If I throw it out, then means I have to accept the change--"

Liquor's been known to loosen someone's mouth, and Shinji's no exception. His only difference from most people was he soberly knew what he was blabbering out. Shunsui looked almost apologetic when Shinji inspected him over his shoulder, head balanced on one hand and a jug in the other.

"I was thinking of giving Kuchiki a promotion," Ukitake started to break the tension, shifting in his stool. Under the bar's black light, his hair almost shone an eerie blue. "She deserved it, after doing grunt work for decades, an unfair death sentence and defeating an Espada."

Shinji leaned down to the counter, eyes focusing on the numerous glasses hanging on top of him. "You're talking about the little sister, right? Not that stuck up ass in hair curlers?"

"Yes—Rukia, she's in my division," Jyuushiro chuckled, but for all the world, it only sounded like half a cough and a sigh in Shinji's ears. "It's time to fill the vacancy. It's something that should have been done years ago, and we need the change—to move on and finally put the past behind us."

"By doing so, it'll honor their memory." Shunsui's swift movement to fill his cup reminded Shinji of Yoruichi, and the older man raised his jug for a toast. "Tonight we celebrate for our reunion."

"Kuchiki's promotion," Ukitake added, raising his cup.

Shinji followed suit, clicking his cup against theirs. For a moment, their grins were familiarly edged between compassion and humor. A lopsided, teethy grin evicted itself from his face. "And knowing when to change."

*

His gramophone was laid neatly on his bedroom's corner when he got up the next morning, and played his old favorites smoothly. The recording was scratch free. Surprisingly, it felt like nostalgia. In his newfound bliss, Shinji could actually recite a haiku of jazzy splendor or even endure Sosuke's godforsaken poetry. Aside from the stamp of Urahara Shoten's on the side, everything on the gramophone looked the same.

Momo-chan's bowed head greeted him inside the division's office that morning, with a steaming cup of tea on his desk.

When he told Hinamori about the miracle of the gramophone over their morning city patrol, she could hear her smile in the reply. She admitted that Kisuke had been reluctant at first, what's with all the obsolete components and really rare parts nowadays. Then she gave him the kicked puppy look and miraculously, the gramophone was up and running in half an hour.

They've reached the 3rd district of South Rukongai when Hinamori finally conjured enough courage to ask him the question. "What's Aizen-san like when he's your subordinate, Captain Hirako?"

Deciding he would let go of the honorific omission this time, Shinji whirled around in his sandals and gave Momo-chan his trademark grin, one that Hacchi had dubbed harmless and harmful, "Why don't you tell me about yourself first."


	6. A wonderful error

A wonderful error  
Rating: G  
Words: 602  
Warning: None  
Crossover: Azumanga Daioh/Bleach, Uryuu/Sakaki: awkwardness and fail – stuffed animals  
Summary: It's the cultural week at some other highschool, and Ishida Uryuu is not expecting to meet a comrade in arms. Crossover with Azumanga Daioh. Warning: CRACK pairing

.

Sakaki has to admit her last cultural week in high school ended with a bang. She had fun, she had many good friends, and above all, she's finally (Finally!) moving out to get a _cat_. She found a very special comrade-in-arms.

It started like the previous festivals, like usual she was arranging the stuffed cat on top of her head again this year, the cat and the kitten sprawled lazily like the notorious tare-panda, and scanned the rest of their items. She has improved her sewing techniques significantly this year, and each pointy ear and fuzzy long tail looked more adorable than ever.

Many of the festival visitors glee at their collection of stuffed animals, and with Osaka parading around with a giant cat costume, Sakaki knew it was high time before all of them get sold out.

"Hey, look! This stuffed cat looks like the one you fixed, Ishida."

An orange haired boy took one of Sakaki's hand made cats by the ear, and it was all she could to stop herself from reprimanding him. There were a bunch of them, wearing Karakura First High's uniform. Future customers, Sakaki reminded herself.

"It kinda looks like Kon," the petite girl beside him commented, scanning the rest of the stuffed animals. "Too bad there are no bunnies here."

"The difference is substantial," The boy with the glasses replied finally, "Kon is a lion; he has round ears and manes. How can you compare that failure to this work of art? Nonetheless, Kurosaki, I never knew you have a thing for stuffed animals."

The carrot top gritted his teeth, placing Sakaki's cat back on the counter, and she suppressed a sigh of relief. "I was thinking of getting this for my kid sister, you moron. But Yuzu already has too many of them."

"Really? I thought you're the one who cuddled one to sleep," Glasses boy sneered.

A vein throbbed on Kurosaki's temple. "Remind me to kick your ass later, Ishida. C'mon Chad, we're leaving."

The giant-supposed-to-be-Chad high schooler took one of the mini stuffed penguin, and handed a thousand yen bill to Sakaki wordlessly, following the carrot top and the petite girl. In the confusion, Sakaki forgot to thank him for the purchase, and resorted to bow quickly to their retreating backs.

Only the boy with the glasses stayed, and he was staring intently at Sakaki through the lenses, making her under the impression of being under a magnifying glass on a hot summer day.

"We, um, have other models if you like," she offered feebly.

Only when he's sure his friends were out of earshot that he pointed to the cats on top of Sakaki's head, and asked, "May I see those?"

Sakaki was stunned at first, but she took them down and handed them over eventually, not intending to defy him.

"This-" he held his breath as he scrutinized the cats. "is _exquisite_." The boy went to admire the handiwork, going on a full detailed explanation about the advantages of rubber linings and linen cloths for the body parts, suede for thorough paw prints and nose parts, and the seemingly hidden threads. But he stopped uncomfortably at the tail's material when he noticed Sakaki was staring at him with pure, unadulterated admiration.

Awkwardly, Ishida cleared his throat and handed the cats back to her.

"Do you…" Sakaki braved herself, gulping unconsciously, "like cats?"

The boy pushed his glasses up, which Sakaki later on identified as a way to cover his burning cheeks. "Only the ones that can't talk."

Despite the weird response, Sakaki concluded, it was love at first sight.


End file.
